


when the heat begins to roil

by kazmir



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alpha Anakin Skywalker, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, Mpreg Kink, Omega Obi-Wan Kenobi, Post-Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith, Potential dubious consent, Suitless Darth Vader, Vaderwan, Voyeurism, fantasies, force projection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:01:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28307943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kazmir/pseuds/kazmir
Summary: Tied to a broken and tattered bond, Vader has visions of a man from a previous life.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi/Darth Vader
Comments: 17
Kudos: 207





	when the heat begins to roil

**Author's Note:**

> Please be mindful of the tags. This is kinda gross. I do think the fic could be expanded on, so tell me what you think.

“You are distracted, my young apprentice. Do not deny it.”

Vader stared out the viewport, where a massive solar system swirled in the blackness of space. He imagined pressing up against the transparisteel window, letting the chill of the glass leach the roiling heat from his skin. He imagined propelling these _thoughtsvisionsnightmares_ into the system’s bright star, where only the void and the fire would know his weakness, his attachment.

Instead, he moved from the viewport and genuflected at the feet of the Emperor, looking up for just a moment into those sickly yellow lamplights burning beneath a drawn-up hood, before turning his gaze to the floor in a show of respect.

“You are right, my master. I apologize,” Vader said, both struck and not to find he did not mean it, not far down in the abscessed parts of his mind, where the gnarled fingers of his master could never quite reach.

“It is no matter, boy. There is much to be done,” said the Emperor. “Rise.”

Vader did, watching as his master drew himself up off of his makeshift throne, his trembling and withered husk of a body belying the great, terrible power that existed just below the surface. 

The Emperor held out a shaking hand, which Vader took into the crook of his arm. It was not for support his master did this, nor was it out of duty that Vader relented. For the moment they touched, he felt the corrosive stroke of his master’s mind within his own, searching for dissent, for disloyalty, for light.

*

Far away and sometime later, when lightyears and lightyears separated his shuttle from his master’s destroyer, Vader fell to his knees as his mind was ravaged once more. The decay left behind by the Emperor’s handlings, so rotten but so familiar, was consumed by the heat. In all its awful, awesome immensity, that heat burrowed itself deep into his flesh and blazed to life, moving images amidst the spitting flames.

For so many months, these _thoughtsvisionsnightmares_ were just feelings, simple ones like lust and need. They were tiny physical things that crawled around beneath his skin. Now, they were like holovideos projected onto the insides of his eyelids, sight and sound and cloying scent of come and slick. 

Vader could close his eyes, and he often did, but the picture would never disappear, not until the single, delicate thread tying him to a previous life stopped twanging and fell still and silent.

From the cold, corrugated floor of his shuttle, Vader watched as a man he once knew, the ghost on the other side of a sheared and tattered bond, prostrated himself upon a mattress, a thin and worn thing stripped of bedding and sinking under the weight of his naked, heaving body.

The Jedi’s body was slimmer than he remembered. Gone was the subtle softness of a life spent in relative comfort, where food was plentiful and given freely. Left behind was the lean and wiry musculature of an existence scraped by on labor, physicality. Broad shoulders narrowed down to a tapered waist, then to an evolutionary flare at the hips that set Vader’s curled fingers twitching.

There was no smoothness left to the Jedi’s skin, marked and scarred and deepened in color from his pale constitution. His hair and beard, still so neatly trimmed and set, looked bleached out by the sun, or perhaps by the ever-steady march of time. Not so long ago had they last parted, but the months felt like years. Ages. Eons.

He watched as the Jedi, so shameless in his nudity, so sure of his solitude, fell back on his heels and palmed at his swollen, weeping cock, hand wet and viscous and shining where he’d thrust his fingers deep inside himself, again and again to satisfy an emptiness those digits alone would never quite fill.

Something ugly unfurled at the base of Vader’s spine, then, a traitorous whisper of that age-old instinct. _Me_ , it said, _I can, let me_.

He knew what it felt like, to fuck into a body like his – the Jedi’s – how he could run the tips of his fingers through the wet pool at his entrance, dip a tip inside the hot clench of him, coat his cock in the slickness he found there and slide into tight heat.

Vader would have him on his hands and knees, would grip him by his hips in a bruising hold with the durasteel monstrosity that made up one hand, while the other still flesh and blood and bone and whole would dig into the hardened muscle at the freckled juncture of neck and shoulder as he thrust.

He would move his hand up into the Jedi’s nape, curl his fingers up into damp, salty hair, and pull, tugging until the body beneath him arched up. Back flush against his front, sliding and sweat-slick, Vader would snap his hips up again and again, until the pressure building deep in his gut released, until he spilled into the body riding his cock.

Maybe he would put a hand on the Jedi, then, encircle his cock with his metal hand and move it gently across sensitive flesh. The organic fingers of his other hand would push his own leaking come back into the Jedi’s body – lithe and lean and strong and capable – so that something of Vader would in part remain, so that his progeny would take root and grow, so that what once was his would be his once more.

Even as the vision began to fade, inky black tendrils swallowing up the color, Vader shot forward and reached out for the kneeling Jedi disappearing into the void of unreality, brushing up against not quite nothingness, but something else entirely, something solid, something tangible.

Vader looked down at his gloved hand. The dull, worn leather shined with sweat and something gritty. He eased the tip of his organic finger through the moisture, then rubbed the grainy substance between his pointer and thumb. 

Sand.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a misquoted lyric taken from The Bones of J.R. Jones’ _The Heat_. [(listen on youtube)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vuYynruLwJ8)


End file.
